


strawberries and cigarettes

by Pan_with_no_plan, TheBiSpy



Series: The Nova/Rogue Co-Author Fun Times Series [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk Bucky Barnes, Punk Natasha Romanov, Punk Steve Rogers, Recreational Drug Use, Song fic, aka weed, also everyone owns a Ford???, everyone’s punk, how sad fam, not any main characters but still, so like, thirty years ago, twenty, whatever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-04-07 21:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14089866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pan_with_no_plan/pseuds/Pan_with_no_plan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBiSpy/pseuds/TheBiSpy
Summary: “Y’know most people don’t just take a strangers hand and drive for an hour and a half in the middle of the night to end up at the docks for fun, right?”Punk music, cigarettes, political rallies; strawberries, roses, cars.It all begins in August, 1992.





	1. The Trouble With Twenty Questions

**Author's Note:**

> sup lads it’s me, pop punk princess aka Rogue. Nova and I have noooo idea where this is going, but we’re writing a chapter each at a time and hoping we know what’s going on. anyways have fun

_Fuck, this is the worst thing I’ve ever done._ Steve Rogers thought while trying to squeeze himself through the crush of bodies and narrowly avoiding spilling drinks from the fake champagne glasses that were held loosely in between the fingers of other guests. He had already decided at several points during the evening he was almost definitely going to murder Natasha in seventeen different ways before Sunday, which gave him around 36 hours to acquire each and every weapon he would use, but vowed to be more creative than merely use a Walmart rifle. 

 

“Come _on_ Steve. I have a really good feeling about this and you won’t regret it.” She’d grinned as she as stood expectantly at his door four hours beforehand. 

“Nat, I really hate parties, especially ones held by Tony because he’s the worlds biggest extrovert and I am the opposite-“

“Yes, but he’s your friend and you haven’t come to a party in _ages_ -“

“Because they always end up badly-“

“Steve, the Great Alcohol Free Martini Incident of 1989 was a blessing. Look,” she sighed, popping her jet black lips as she leaned on the doorframe. “Just... come on. This once. Clint and I are going for the crappy cider and to make fun of Tony tomorrow morning. If you need to take a breather the guy has a fucking garden for heavens sake. With roses.” 

Steve glanced back into his tiny apartment, the news playing quietly on his TV, a half-finished comic panel on his coffee table. 

He bit his lip, frowning. _I am so gonna regret this_ , he thought.  
“Alright. Fine. I’ll go.”

Nat squealed, clapping her hands together. “Fuck yes! This is great. I’m calling Clint, you have half an hour to get ready.” 

Steve whizzed through the shower while Nat made herself a coffee in his kitchen (without his knowledge, however Steve didn’t really care that much), pulling on a shirt from his floor and a leather jacket from his cupboard, applying the worlds hastiest eyeliner and trying to style his hair in a way that looked even close to reasonable. 

“Hurry _up_ , Steven, how long does it take to tie a pair of Docs?” She sighed, leaving a mug in his bathroom. 

He glared at her from where he was crouched on the floor, badges on his jacket clinking slightly when he shifted.  
“Not everyone’s a laces ninja, Natoosh.” 

She whacked him on the back of the head. “We do not speak of Natoosh. I thought you’d play nice, I’m doing you a favour.” 

She dragged him down the seven flights of stairs into the warm late summer air, where Clint was waiting in his purple Ford LTD. 

“Holy shit, I never even thought you’d come.” He remarked as they clambered ungracefully into the car, Natasha planting a kiss on his cheek. “I thought Tasha was joking.”

Steve looked back at the apartment building as though he’d never see it again. 

 

And at 10 in the evening, while trying to make his way to the doors at the side and escape for some fresh air, Steve was beginning to seriously reconsider why he _did_ in fact come in the first place.  
Tony had commented on the badges on his jacket, flicking the one that said ‘FUCK REAGAN’ in large letters and warning him that walking around with a rainbow badge that proclaimed his ‘open queerness’ was going to land him in trouble one day. 

 

“I don’t care.” He’d responded. “Shouldn’t keep all quiet about it.” 

“Oh yeah, the whole ‘social stigma’ thing. Keep it up, ‘ANGRY PUNK FEMINIST’.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder. 

 

And sure, the start of the party had been ok, without a massive amount of people and a clean bowl of punch yet to be spiked, music blaring and a comfortable corner to hide in, but as the evening continued, it became more claustrophobic and that is how Steve ended up in another uncomfortable situation, wishing he was at home reading or listening to The Cure on his radio and finishing his art stuff for Monday. 

The minute the mild night air hit his face, he sighed in relief, breathing slowly into his lungs until he felt slightly better. He looked up at the sky above him and noticed that small fairy lights had been strung around Tony’s massive garden, probably by his mother. It was oddly comforting, wandering through the neatly trimmed rose bushes and vines that crept up the whitewashed poles, the entire garden decorated with warm fairy lights. He swore internally, wishing he’d brought his camera or maybe a sketchbook when a movement in the corner of his eye made him spin around abruptly. 

A figure stood looking at the stars above them, hands in pockets, long brown hair falling just above his shoulders. As Steve slowly got closer, he noticed the braids on one side of his head and the piercings that reflected the light above him, the tattoos peeking out from beneath his shirt and _shit is that glitter?_

_This is so fucking cliche,_ Steve thought. 

The figure turned his head, and he realised he’d said it out loud. Steve blushed as deep as the roses behind him and hoped that the dark evening would hide it. 

“Hate people too?” He said, smile dancing on his lips. 

Steve laughed nervously, brushing a hand through his hair, wishing that he could look cool while doing it. “Yeah, I uh. Yeah.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking at the concrete beneath him. 

As he walked closer, the stranger raised an eyebrow, looking at his jacket. “Nice pins. You’re the ‘FUCK REAGAN’ kid, right?”

Steve said a silent prayer of thanks that the other boy knew him as the kid who hated Reagan, and not as ‘the fag kid’.  
“Oh yeah. That’s me.” 

The other boy hummed in amusement. “It’s cute. PoliSci?” 

Steve shook his head. “Art.” _Did he just say it was cute?_

“Ah right.” He nodded. “Got a lighter?” The stranger said, fumbling with a packet of cigarettes. 

“Uh. No.” Steve scuffed his worn pair of Docs on the gravely path beneath him. 

The other boy shrugged, pocketing the small box and standing up straight. “Shame. Guess I’ll go back inside then.” He started walking away, or maybe sauntering was a better word, jacket swinging around his waist. 

“Wait!” Steve called, immediately regretting it. The other boy turned around, an amused expression playing on his features. 

“Yeah?”

_Shit shit shit_ thought Steve. “Uh. Never- fuck. I don’t- uh. Hm. Just go.” He wanted the ground to swallow him whole and let him disappear forever and wipe his existence from everyone’s minds. 

Whoever the other guy was, he was going to continue surprising Steve throughout the evening, beginning with when he actually made his way back over to where the tiny blond was standing and smiled, looking up at the sky.  
“Yeah, nah. People suck. I’d rather get the fuck outta here, as nice as it is in the roses. Come with me?” He held out a hand, smirking. 

“I uh. My friends are in there they probably- fuck it.” He put his hand in the strangers and suddenly felt himself being pulled along towards the front of the house. 

“Come on!” 

Upon this evening, Steve found himself thinking _fuck it_ more than usual. If he hadn’t said _fuck it_ to himself quite as much, he wouldn’t have ended up running quietly hand in hand with a mysterious boy with long braids in his hair and glitter on his cheekbones towards a black Ford Mustang while his heart hammered wildly in his chest and a small laugh escaped his lips. 

“I don’t even know your name!” He said in between breaths. 

“James Barnes. My friends call me Bucky.”

“Am I your friend?” He asked with a playful grin. _How the hell do you get ‘Bucky’ from ‘James’?_

“If you weren’t even remotely interested in being my friend you wouldn’t have taken my hand.” Bucky replied, stopping and holding up their hands. “What’s your name, Sex Pistols?” 

Steve smiled, fiddling with the black and white badge on his jacket. “Steve. Steve Rogers.” 

Bucky let go of his hand and ran around to the drivers door of the car, pulling out a set of keys. “It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance, Steve.” 

“And to think you just called us friends.” Steve replied. 

Bucky laughed, climbing into the drivers seat of the car. 

And that’s how Steve found himself speeding through the suburban neighbourhoods of New York back into the city, past the coloured lights and the starry sky, while getting side tracked in deep conversations that somehow started out as a round of Twenty Questions. 

“I always hate playing this with other people.” Steve commented after they’d taken apart the history of the punk genre and ended up singing old anti-Hitler songs that Steve remembered his Dad teaching him before he died. 

“Why?”

“No one ever asks deep enough questions. I don’t wanna know about what people’s favourite colour is, I wanna know what their... their biggest dream is, or their deepest fear. It’s a game that’s supposed to get you to know someone better.” 

Bucky looked at him curiously, a few strands of hair falling in his face, car illuminated by a red light from the traffic lights next to them. “What is your biggest dream then?” 

Steve looked down at the floor, frowning. “I think... well I mean, I don’t think, I _know_ that a massive part of my dream has always been ‘defending the little guy’ or whatever, but I can’t do that coz I’m tiny and couldn’t win a fight if I tried. But I’ve also always dreamed of owning a really cute apartment in Brooklyn where I can just paint and live and be away from everything that makes me mad. Brooklyn’s home to me.” 

Bucky smiled as they began speeding further into the city. “You don’t need to punch people to stand up for what you believe in. I mean, you can, but you don’t need to. C’mon, you like art right? Then paint or draw or,” he waved a hand in the air, searching for the right words. “Or something arty like that, that translates into how you feel about things. Fuck dude, go and graffiti a wall if that’s what it takes. You don’t really need to win physical fights, you can win other ones.” 

Steve paused from fiddling with one of his badges. “What’s your dream then?”

Bucky laughed. “Would you believe me when I say I don’t have one?”

“C’mon. Everyone’s got a dream.” 

“My dream...” he started, nodding his head slightly. “No, I really don’t know. Maybe I’m too cynical for dreams.” 

“No,” Steve grinned, turning in his seat to face Bucky. “No ones ever too _cynical_ for dreams either. Go on. I answered. And truthfully.” 

Bucky sighed, a sad look flashing across his face before it was replaced with the same amused one he had before. “My dream is... settle down maybe. One day. Be happy. And safe. Safety is good. I wanna see my sisters again. Even just once.” 

Steve felt the atmosphere change significantly. “Can I ask what happened?” He said softly. 

Bucky glanced at him, and Steve caught a flash of fear in his storm blue eyes.  
“You don’t have to answer.” Steve said quickly. “Sorry. I’ve stepped on a nerve. Just- never mind. That’s pushing it.” 

Bucky nodded, amused look wiped from his face like chalk from a blackboard. “Yeah. Uh. Not- not yet. But hey,” he said in a cheerier tone. “You said you were from Brooklyn, right?”

“Yeah, born and raised. My parents are Irish though. Or- they were. My Da died when I was 10. My Ma, just over a year ago.”

“Shit Steve, that’s-“

“It’s fine. Really. I wouldn’t bring it up if I couldn’t handle it. But yes.” He inhaled deeply. “I’m a Brooklyn boy through and through.”

“Same. Maybe we could have been friends earlier.” Bucky said lightly, chuckling. “And Brooklyn’s where we’re going.” 

 

They ended up on a long wooden walkway at one of the docks at two in the morning after wandering for a while, talking about whatever came to mind, whatever lead into the next conversation. Steve ranted for a straight ten minutes about how much he hated how much violence skinheads could get away with, Bucky talked about where to draw the line between art and insanity, Steve found out that Bucky’s favourite colour was midnight blue because “it’s not completely black, but it’s not as light and happy as ordinary blue, y’know?”, and Bucky discovered that Steve would click his fingers when he was looking for a word. 

Their toes were dangling in the cold water, a cool breeze picking up from the east, when Bucky turned to Steve and said, “y’know, most people don’t just take a strangers hand and drive for an hour and a half in the middle of the night to end up at the docks for fun, right?” 

Steve nodded. “In all honesty, tonight hasn’t exactly what ‘most people’ would consider normal.” 

Bucky nodded, staring out across the bay, lights dancing in the water like a shaky oil painting. “I’m sorry.” He muttered a few minutes later. 

“Wait, what for?” 

“For dragging you with me. It was selfish. I shouldn’t have gone to the party in the first place.” 

“What?” Steve exclaimed, turning around violently. “No! No no no. No. No, this has- tonight’s been- shi- I don’t know where to even start.” 

“I fucked up. Tomorrow you can forget I even existed.” Bucky pulled out a lighter he’d taken from the glovebox in his car and lit a dangling cigarette between his lips. 

“What if I don’t want that?” Steve replied in a small voice, splashing the water with his toes. “What if- What if I said this evening has been one of the craziest, most amazing few hours of my life?” 

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes. “They’re only ‘ifs’. Only ever ifs.” 

Steve looked up at him with sad eyes. “They’re not ‘ifs’. I don’t want to forget you ever. Even if you disappeared from my life tomorrow, and that’s suck coz I actually really like you, I’d still remember tonight as some of the best few hours of my life.”

“You like me?” The surprise was evident in his voice. 

“I mean, yeah, like a friend, and I’d love to get to know you more because... friendship? I think- I know. Yes.” Steve blushed deeply, pale skin pigmented by strawberry red. He prayed Bucky wouldn’t notice. _Like a friend? Steve you are_ useless.

Bucky nodded slowly, smoke trailing out across the water. “Friends.”  
He looked at him with a smile playing at his lips, the glitter from the party still bright on his cheekbones and Steve would come to wonder how on earth he became such a mess over James Barnes.


	2. a day in the life of Bucky Barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked back up at the stars, prettier that any part of this disastrous night. What possessed him to think this was a good idea.
> 
> Then: "This is so fucking cliche."

He stared up at the night sky. Inky black, pricked with light, stars coming together to map out stories of myths and heroes despite being hundreds of light years apart; spinning throughout the galaxy in the vast vacuum of space.

Bucky glanced around at the party and its participants. The glow of the fairy lights hummed through the air, illuminating the multi-coloured balloons and shimmering glitter and hollowing out the face of Stark's house guests. They swayed to the thudding bass of another dance mashup, tipsy from the booze and looking to pass out any moment. Some had already decided that this was the best way to conclude their evening's experience, and were sprawled across sofas and ping pong tables.

The glitter was getting everywhere because it was apparently not only Stark himself who could be a pain in the ass, but also everything he released into this world would inherit that trait. Ugh.

He looked back up at the stars, prettier that any part of this disastrous night. What possessed him to think this was a good idea.

Then: " _This is so fucking cliche._ "

The kid, practically swallowed by the large jacket hanging off of his skinny frame, a patchwork of badges and bad stitching to repair the many tears in the fabric; a mess of dirty blond hair that hardly reached Bucky's shoulders; his face, haloed by the rose bushes that clung to the wall behind him; a blush that began to blossom against the kid's neck and colour his cheeks.

Ah, _jeez_.

~~~

His phone's ringtone shoved its way inconsiderately into his dreams, and he woke with a groan. Pulling himself out of bed, Bucky stumbled through his cramped room and ended up in the slightly less cramped hallway. He fumbled with the phone that read _06:37_ and pressed the receiver.

"Yes? Hello?"

"Good morning Bucky."

"Wanda, hi." Bucky carded a hand through his knotted hair, pulling it back from his face in a first. "What's happening?"

"Well, this is your morning wake up call to ensure your timely arrival to the studio today, accompanied by a generous number of doughnuts. I have the feeling you may want to be a few minutes earlier than normal; we have some things to discuss before practice."

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if you forget the doughnuts."

She hung up, leaving Bucky to wonder what the hell she could be wanting to talk about with him.

He shut the stiff door with a hard pull, then shoved on his trench coat, flipping up the lapels against the driving rain. Inside the Mustang his breath drifted in clouds and the windscreen had frosted up. His knees jumped up and down as he waited for the car to heat up, rubbing his hands together like a fly.

After an aggravating journey through the street of New York that did wonders to warm him up, he arrived at the ballet dance studio with a paper bag of custard doughnuts balanced on his lap. Hurriedly parking by a side street, he grabbed the bag and his kit, making his way towards the changing rooms.

Wanda was waiting for him, perched on a bench in a pair of leggings and a red shirt. There were only a few more people hanging around, lacing up pointe shoes or listening to music through headphones plugged into clunky Discmans.

Bucky chucked the paper bag next to her. "Donuts. Don't eat me. What's up." He practically toppled onto the bench next to her, chucking his own bag between his legs.

Wanda raised an eyebrow at him, assessing, before speaking. "Where did you go last night? I only saw you at the party for _ten minutes_ before you disappear. And someone says they saw you with that blond kid, you know, the one fuelled by anger alone."

Bucky's face felt hot, and he glared at the floor. "Who told ya that?"

"Guess."

He sighed. "Yeah, okay. I should've known."

"Listen, my brother has many talents, one of which being the ability to become remarkably intoxicated within a short space of time, and another being that he sees _everything_. Including your rather abrupt departure of Stark's party last night hand-in-hand with Reagan's number one fan."

Bucky slumped against the stone wall, awkwardly buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket sleeves. "And?"

" _And_? What happened? Where do you go? Was this a blossoming friendship I wasn't aware of, or did you feel the need to take him someone private before making out? He doesn't seem your type."

"Wanda! I never... we just talked. I don't know. I just hated all the noise and the crowds and Stark's _terrible_ music taste, and. He was there. So. We left. And drove around." He raised his hands. "I don't know what else to tell you."

"Sure," Wanda said. She reached into the bag, and fished out a sugar-coated dough ball, biting into it carefully.

Bucky changed into his tights and a black shirt, slipping his shoes on before standing. "Shall we?" Wanda, also ready, made her way to the practice hall.

It was an uneventful morning of ballet practice. They warmed up and stretched before Hill arrived, then she put them through the paces of their newly constructed choreography. Bucky was called out and corrected more times than usual, so by the end he felt flustered and graceless. His body ached, heavy and sore.

Bucky waved Wanda goodbye, then set off once more, driving across Brooklyn to a half decent restaurant near the upper bay. He awkwardly changed in the back seat of the Mustang, pulling on a cleanish button down and black slacks.

Spending the next few hours waitering to tired executives and timid guys trying to impress first dates, Bucky had a while to think as he mechanically shuffled round tables and jotted down orders.

He thought about Steve.

Steve's dumb baby blue eyes, and his dumb blond hair, and the way his calloused hand fitted into his. Driving through New York at night with him, the inky black sky crowded out with the light of the city as they talked. Walking by the docks, the moon reflected by the rippling water, and those dumb freckles looking just like the stars above them.

The dumb blush creeping up his skin, like a rose blooming in the sun.

"James? James, table seven is waiting to order!" Shit.

By the time Bucky made it home, the light had faded from the sky once more, and he could hardly believe it'd only been a day since he met Steve Rogers. He missed him - which, once more, was completely _dumb_ seeing as they barely know each other.

But. They talked for hours, how Bucky would talk to a best friend or brother like nothing came between them; like they could be completely honest and not worry about judgment.

Bucky smiled, remembering Steve's stammered attempt to comfort him, his crooked smile as his gazed out to the horizon. He wanted to see him again soon, but he'd got no idea how to suggest meeting up.

And he had forgotten to ask for his phone number.

God damnit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo it's Nova.
> 
> Sorry I took so long to write this chapter, also sorry for any mistakes I made.
> 
> I just want my bois to be happy and gay.


	3. Deeper Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sorry, second hottest soloist in the New York City ballet.” 
> 
> Oh shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why does my stomach hurt so much.

Steve couldn’t believe that just the last week it had been hot and muggy, and just as he stepped outside on Monday morning, it was raining. He knew he should really wear more than an old leather jacket, but the news has said it should clear up by the afternoon and he didn’t really plan on leaving the college building, maybe except to meet Natasha after they’d finished. 

He hadn’t seen her or Clint or Tony at all since Saturday, and kept wondering what they’d think when he tried to explain the wildly outlandish night that he’d had.  
_Not since the roses_. 

The roses. The soft whites that reflected the warm fairy lights, the deep reds that bloomed on the edges, the jasmine vines that crawled up the whitewashed poles, and in the middle, a stranger with long hair and glitter on his cheeks-

“That’s very nice, Steven.”  
He nearly jumped three feet in the air as his professor walked past, lingering to admire the painting. “Where did you get the inspiration?” 

“Oh, um, thank you, Professor Coulson.” Steve shifted awkwardly on his stool, pulling a hand through his hair. “I was at a party on Saturday. They had a rose garden.” 

His professor nodded, indicating the outline of the figure in the middle, shrouded in shadow, head tilted towards the stars. “Who’s that?”

Steve shrugged. “I- I’m not sure.” He lied, cringing slightly. “Just... someone.”

“Well,” Professor Coulson patted him on the shoulder. “It looks wonderful. Keep it up.” 

Steve turned back to his painting, blushing furiously and staring down at the mess of red and white and orange on his palette. 

_Ah shit_. 

 

“Steven _Grant_ Rogers,” Natasha exclaimed, sitting down heavily opposite him on a park bench. The sun was filtering through the watery afternoon air, the smell of wet concrete and trees pushing through the usual stench of the city. “I need some _answers_ to two, very much related things.” 

“Ask away,” he said, doodling on his arm in biro. 

Natasha glared at him. “Firstly, leaving the party was no surprise, I knew you’d probably go home anyway but I’m glad I brought some bail money in my purse just in case-“

“You drove to the police station?” He asked in exasperation. “Really?”

“Yeah, I had to check. But you explain why the _fuck_ I overheard Pietro Maximoff talking to Wanda about how you left _hand in hand with James Buchanan Barnes_ , one of the greatest and most respected dancers in the New York City Ballet, _right the hell now_.” 

“Wait _what?_ ” Steve spluttered, scaring a way a few nearby pigeons. He stared at her in shock. 

“Yes, _Steven_. You’re in deep waters here. What happened.” 

He couldn’t tell if she was concerned or not. Or even if she was enthralled and entertained. Probably both.  
He sighed deeply, digging the palms of his hands into his eye. 

“Alright it’s going to sound really, _really_ strange, but here goes.”  
He explained what happened on that night in brief detail, trying to make it sound as mundane as possible but he couldn’t make it sound anything close to ordinary really, because the events were, in all honesty, bizarre. 

“And you haven’t seen him since?” Natasha raised an eyebrow, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the mildly damp wood of the table between them. 

Steve shook his head. “Nah. He dropped me off at my building and it’s the last I’ve seen of him.” 

Natasha squinted. “I’ll bring him with me next time.” She began to leave, picking up her bag with a sort of finality. 

“Wait, you know him?” 

She gave him a mildly disgusted look. “Do you doubt me that much? I just haven’t talked about him all that often. I’m a soloist. So is he. We do, in fact, know each other.” 

“Yes, ok, sorry, I don’t understand the dance things.” He held up his hands defensively. Once she’d sauntered off, it suddenly hit him like a speeding bullet: _dear lord Bucky was coming with Natasha on Wednesday and he was definitely not prepared for that_. 

 

He went to the diner at 5:30, pale blue uniform loose despite the fact it was the smallest size they had. The air was cool and the sun was still up, but it had begun to slowly set behind the tall buildings casting shadows across the city. The warm wind blowing in from the west caressed his hair gently, the last of summer clinging desperately to the streets before the autumn began to settle, bringing the cold fronts off the water with it. 

He thought about what Natasha had said earlier. _You’re in deep waters here._ She was such a mystery. What’d that even mean? He’d spoken to a soloist with NYC ballet, great, people did that all the time, didn’t they? It’s not like he _knew_ either. And besides, he was friends with Nat, so was it _really_ a big deal?

His mind wandered back further, recounting the events of the Friday night. It was truly a strange occurrence, one that Steve would assume was spur of the moment, unplanned, spontaneous. _Fuck_ , just thinking about the way the moonlight struck his hair, the way the fairy lights illuminated the whole scene, the roses that grew along the paths, the way Bucky’s hand felt- no, _cut it out_ , Steven. 

“You look so out of it, Steve.” A bright voice said next to him. Angie was nursing a cup of coffee, smirk painted on her features, clearly expecting an answer to her subtly implied question. 

“What? No, I’m fine.” He replied hurriedly, wiping down the counter vigorously. 

“Mhm.” She nodded, raising her eyebrows. “You definitely do not look love struck at all.”

He nearly dropped the bottle of all-purpose surface cleaner, blushing furiously. “I don’t, because I’m not. I’m thinking about _painting_ and a _friend_ and that’s it.” 

“Ooh, a _friend_? Who is she?” 

“ _He_ is, in fact, _just a friend-_ Angie are you trying to distract yourself? You literally _never_ ask me about my ‘love life’.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and putting air quotes around ‘love life’. When Angie didn’t answer, and instead turned bright red, he cackled with triumph. “Ha! I was right. Spill.” 

Angie was quiet for a few moments, biting her lip and frowning. She eventually inhaled deeply before turning to face Steve, eyes looking down. “I can’t.” 

He raised an eyebrow sceptically. “What’d you mean you can’t? Not like I’d judge you or anything.” 

“Would you not?” She sighed sarcastically, expression closely resembling a kicked kitten. 

Steve was taken aback. No way in hell he’d judge her, Angie was one of his closest friends. “No, I wouldn’t! That’s what I’m here for!”

“Just drop it, Steven.” She snapped, throwing the surface cleaner under the counter with a bang before turning away to take an order for a sad looking man in a trench coat. 

_Huh,_ he thought. 

 

“Oh, _Steve_.” Clint’s voice crackled down the phone the next day. “You just hooked up with a soloist?”

Steve sighed, rubbing his face in exasperation. “No, we didn’t _hook up._ Why do I need to keep telling people this?” 

“Dude, it sounds like a very strange, gay, sexless hookup between the hottest soloist- ok, sorry Nat. The _second_ hottest soloist in the New York City Ballet and an art student who lives off too much coffee and probably works on the side as a rent boy.” 

He choked on his glass of coke, nearly spilling it on the half finished painting in front of him. “I am _so_ gonna ignore that you just called me a rent boy.” 

“I mean, you kinda look like one- no, I don’t know what an actual rent boy looks like, Tasha, I’m just guessing- but seriously. Tomorrow you’re meeting up with this guy again. Wait what?”  
Steve could hear Natasha talking in the background, and he dreaded what was coming next.  
“Nat agrees with me. You look like a twink. Anyway.” 

Steve groaned. “Just because I’m skinny-“ 

“Nah it’s because you’re a punk. You know what that used to mean, right? It was a prison rent boy. You know your way around night holding cells. And it’s because you’re skinny.” Clint added. 

“Back to the original point; yes, I’m meeting him again tomorrow. I blame Natasha. It’s her fault. Tell her I hate her.” 

“He hates you,” Clint said, phone slightly muffled by his shirt. “She says you’ll thank her later. Look man, our pizza just arrived and I love pizza more than you so bye. Good luck with tomorrow.” 

“Bye. I hate all of you!” Steve replied with finality, eventually sighing and sinking into the sofa. He glared at the glass of coke as though it might suddenly turn into a sword he could slay Natasha with. Everything was her fault, and nothing was fun. Especially not the sudden eruption of butterflies in his stomach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ Nova I’m sorry this took so long


	4. this is not how I planned it in my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> of all the people Bucky thought could help him locate Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanova of the New York City ballet was not one of them.

Bucky admired Natasha Romanova of the New York City Ballet like one would admire a sculpture or a particularly tasteful painting. She was elegant, graceful, and had every pirouette and jeté down to an art form; leaping and twisting through the air as if gravity itself was no match for her strength and speed. But she was reserved, and during every break she withdrew to a corner by herself, silent and watchful. Natasha and Bucky had occasionally talked, of course, to go over choreography or to discuss positioning, but he'd never made headway in anything that could be regarded as conversation.

 

Until now.

 

"Good morning James."

 

Bucky jerked, straightening from where he'd been bent over his shoes. He squinted at her, cocking his head in bewilderment. "Hello. Natasha."  

 

Her hair was tied up in an effortless bun that put Bucky's messy knots to shame, with not a single strand out of place, its unnaturally fiery hue matching the bright red of her lips. Practice didn't start for another quarter hour, so she wore a dark purple hoodie over her leotard.

 

Natasha Romanova smiled, standing tall despite her small stature. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?" she remarked.

 

Bucky glanced at the large windows, raising his eyebrows at the damp streets and sombre sky. "Not really."

 

She shrugged, a gesture which held more malice than such a simple action should allow and stepped forward. "Great, now that we've got past polite conversation, I have a favour to ask."

 

Bucky baulked, unsure. "About... the dance?"

 

Natasha ran a hand across her hair, looking calmly across at him. "My friend. Steve. You know Steve? Short, skinny, with the general demeanour of a helpless puppy wielding a knife?"

 

"Wait. Wait - wait- _Steve Rogers_?"

 

"After practice. You're coming with me to see Steve. Meet me by the locker rooms."

 

Bucky was at a loss for something to say. He searched his mind for something, but his brain was unhelpfully flashing the word Steve repeatedly in bright colours, accompanied by the image of his blue eyes peering up at him. "You do realise that asking me for a favour means that I have a choice on the matter, right?"

 

She gives him a pointed look, turning and walking back over to the barre. "Don't be late," she tosses over her shoulder. 

 

~~~

 

After they met up, Bucky had followed Natasha out of the building, relishing the cool breeze of the late afternoon after hours of core-shredding lifts. She had brought him to a small park five minutes from the school, with faded trees bunched in one corner and a small pond supporting a family of energetic ducks in the other. On every side, grey apartment buildings bordered the small patch of greenery, though some light managed to struggle through the gaps, settling onto the grass.

 

Steve stood in the centre, looking unsure of his quiet place amid the bustle of the city. They walked closer, until he noticed their presence, turning to face them.

 

“Hey.” Suddenly flushed and nervous, Bucky dipped his gaze downwards. His eyes landed on Steve’s hand, fingers long and slender, smudged with dark charcoal. On the night that felt like so long ago, Steve had been all hard lines, dark ink and sharp bones standing out against the harsh light of the street. Today he was softer, standing skewed in the evening’s glow, clothed in a pale blue shirt and worn grey jeans that swathed him in warmth; gold flecks of hair shifting across cyan blue eyes, and  _goddamn it, he was staring at his eyes again_.

 

“Well,” Nat’s voice cut through the air, Bucky not realising that those eyes had been trained right back at him until Steve turned back to face her. She raised one perfect eyebrow and gave an indecipherable look to Steve. “I’ll be going now.”

 

Bucky was almost certain they both wore an identical expression of betrayal and fear, Steve spluttering out a few syllables whilst Bucky stood there in silence. “Where?” Steve finally managed to stutter.

 

“Boxing. With Clint, you remember?” she said.  Something in Steve’s expression told Bucky that he most certainly did not, nor had he ever been told this information in the first place. “Great. Have fun boys.” She nodded her head towards him. “James.”

 

They were frozen for a few moments, both calculating their next move. Eventually, Bucky gestured helplessly, indicating the gravel path stretching out towards the pale trees. “Wanna walk?”

 

“Sure.” They fell into step with each other, Steve’s longer, loping strides matching his own shorter ones, evening the pace despite the difference of height. His head barely reached Bucky’s shoulder, but he walked straight-backed, chin jutted out stubbornly, as if the world would crush him if he let his guard down for even a second. 

 

It was silent for a moment. Then a moment longer. The uncomfortable heat of midday had begun to drift into the chill of evening, and the air grew sharp.

 

“So.” Steve was the first to speak again. “You do... ballet?”

 

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Bucky answered waveringly. He glanced at Steve, who was striding slightly ahead now, turning left onto a smaller track. “I... enjoy it.”

 

Steve nodded; once, twice. “Cool.” After that vain attempt to push back the awkwardness of the situation, silence settled over them once more. Bucky groped to find that electrified atmosphere of the previous night, where he had felt full for the first time in years. Full of feeling and life, as though some of the words they exchanged had brought back buried memories, and he had felt something real for the first time in years.

 

Now, they ambled throughout the thin birch tree branches, neither speaking. Bucky dug in his pocket before he even began to feel that familiar itch inside his chest. Pulling out a cigarette from a small packet, he quickly lit up with a lighter he’d picked up from Wanda the evening before. Breathing in, then out, he felt his shoulders slump from where he’d held them stiffly, and the world seemed slightly less terrible. 

 

A sudden, sharp cough came from his left, where Steve had stopped, half bent on the pavement, hacking out his lungs. Bucky ran the distance back. He stopped in front of Steve, whose hair had flopped to cover his face, and whose bony hands were clasped across his knees. “Jeez, Steve,” Bucky cried.

 

“S— sorry.” Came the rasped reply. “It’s the smoke. My... goddamn _fuckin’_ lungs.”

 

Bucky dropped the cigarette like it had burnt him, grinding it quickly beneath the thick heel of his boot. “Agh. Shit.” He hadn’t even thought, just lit it from habit and the stress of trying to stoke a conversation from nothing, with some kid he barely knew. And now that kid appeared to be pretty much dying, thanks to him. “You need anything to... stay alive?”

 

Steve hugged a ragged breath that could, by a stretch, be interpreted as laughter. “Just a minute and I'll be good, thanks.” He took measured breaths, fighting another fit down his throat. Another few moments and he gave Bucky a thin smile. “See? All peachy.” 

 

He frowned, looking Steve over. “You sure, pal? You looked ready to keel over.” He certainly seemed pale. 

 

Steve frowned then, eyebrows pulling together, expression stony. “I’m _fine_.” He flapped a hand forward, looking to the next patch of greenery rather than Bucky. “Let’s just- keep walking.” 

 

He opened his mouth to ask again if he was okay, but Steve turned his gaze to face Bucky, and he paused. Something told him that it was something that Steve wouldn’t allow anyone to help him with, let alone a stranger. He turned, walking a few steps ahead until Steve eventually strode forward to keep up the pace beside him. 

 

Bucky spoke, at first without even knowing the words were forming on his lips. “You know, you really reminded me of Becca, just then. My sister,” he clarified. “Every summer we used to dig out the garden hose from our shed. Everyone would change into their swimsuits, and take turns chasing the others around with it. Becca was the reigning champion, see.”

 

Steve glanced across at him. “Yeah?

 

“Yeah. Hardly ever got hit, from what I remember." Bucky thinks back. The huge grins of his sisters and the rich golden light streaked across the grass; high pitched screams of delight as the stream of water found its target, hitting him square in the face whilst Becca yelled out her victory for the others to hear. They had run around him again and again, daring him to try and catch them. Bucky drew a deep breath. "She always was a challenge to control, they all were. Still are, I'd guess." 

 

Steve turned his head towards him, keeping his eyes on the path. "Why... Bucky, why can't you see them? It really shouldn't be much trouble to arrange a date or meet up somewhere."

 

"No." Bucky tried to sound firm. "You gotta understand. I can't." 

 

Steve continued, saying "Or even to ring them on the phone, if they're away somewhere or--"

 

" _Steve_. It's not that simple." 

 

"But--"

 

" _Shit_ , Steve!" Bucky stopped, feet planted squarely on the ground. "You don't know me! You don't know anything about me, so just quit acting like you've got all the facts, okay? I can't see them ever again. I can't see the three people who mean the most to me in my life, and that's not changing anytime soon." 

 

He looked up, meeting Steve's eyes. He seemed pained, and Bucky realised the slash of raw emotion he had just revealed, if for a moment. Contrasted from his usual complacent demeanour, purposely moulded to fit around his everyday life, which now lay split open. 

 

Bucky tried to soften his voice, though it wavered. “I know. I know it’s not your fault, just. You don’t get to ask things like that. I-“

 

What must Steve think of him now?

 

"Shit," Bucky whispered; breath between his dry lips. Turning, he stepped off the pavement and began pushing through the thin trees, batting away the twigs that caught in his hair and scratched across his skin. "Shit," he said again, though no one heard. He heard no other footstep behind because Steve wasn't following. 

 

Of course, he wasn't following.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I spent way too long writing this for what it is
> 
> sorry for the low quality whoo


	5. Angie, Peggy and the Great Makeout of 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have three bottles of vodka I’m not drinking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahaha this isn’t my best work however give ya bitch a break in working on so many things at the moment.

Steve felt immeasurably guilty as the afternoon continued to pass in a haze of work and stress. Bucky’s retreating form had just about cemented what he thought would happen, even if a part of him hated it. The same part that hated himself for pushing a topic that was _clearly_ far too sensitive. It was even worse that for a second, a flash of _something_ had passed through his being that’d set him stumbling over what to do. He’d fucking _coughed_ to hide whatever his face must have been doing. Cigarettes had never been a big deal for his lungs when other people had been smoking them, not really. There were better things he could be inhaling, and he himself would never smoke a cigarette because that was bound to end in disaster, but he was a _bisexual male_. He’d spent time in the Village. He’d smoked weed out of strangers windows at parties, he’d been high and ended up making out with people in bathrooms while the music pulsed through the walls.   
He had been a _mess_ before. Not that he talked about it. 

However, with all the guilt there was still a small ounce of curiosity. It really was rather strange that Bucky _couldn’t_ see his sisters. Steve doubted he didn’t have time, because surely dancers got breaks? They’re still human (to his knowledge) and they still need to see family if they have it. He was a prodigy, from what Natasha told him. Why would any family not want to constantly brag about their twenty one year old son being a model soloist for NYC Ballet?   
It wasn’t really his fault for being curious. It was a _curious_ situation after all.   
Or it could be more simple than he knew.   
Then again it was completely bizarre that he couldn’t even drop a _phone call_.

He sighed, walking through the noisy streets on his way to his shift at the diner. The sun was just beginning to make its way down in the afternoon haze, as the sun does. The light reflected off of the tall buildings and Steve just wanted to go and sit at the top of one and draw the skyline and not think.   
At all.   
About anything. 

Ever. 

He was definitely going to be distracted for the rest of the evening. 

 

Angie of course, noticed how tense he was. She was too good at knowing exactly how he was feeling all the time. In fact, he’d go as far too admit knowing exactly how _everyone_ was feeling all the time. 

“Hey _Steven_ ,” she hummed when he walked into the diner, and he began tying an apron around his small waist. “ _Bee_ in your _can of worms_?” 

“Huh?” He looked up from where he was hanging up his jacket, the pins clanking gently. The phrase Angie used didn’t faze him in the least. It was just one of her many mixed sayings, and besides; a bee in anyone’s can of worms was unpleasant, both for the bee and the worms.   
“I can’t lie, can I?” Steve’s eyes dropped to the ground and he sighed. “Things are... complicated.” 

“Honey, whatever _you_ think is complicated I can garuntee I have a million and one things to combat it.” 

“Is this a competition? Really?” 

“Go on then,” Angie grabbed a bottle of cleaning spray and a cloth and began wiping down the counter. “Spill.” 

Steve groaned, before picking up his notepad. “I’m getting table 13’s order first.”   
Angie didn’t leave him a moment between delivering the order on a piece of paper to the kitchen before turning to face him with a smirk. He groaned.   
“Fine. Look, there’s this guy, ok?” He sounded more annoyed than anything, which Angie took as a pretty bad sign. “And we met at a party and we went driving for a while and talked and then we tried to meet up again today and it went to _shit_ because I don’t know how to stop being curious about things and now we’re probably not gonna speak again which is _fucking fantastic_. I’ve never felt more connected to, yet alienated by, someone like this before.” 

Angie’s smirk had long fallen off her face by that point. Instead she looked at him in a more sympathetic manner. “What’s going on under all... _that_ , Steve?” She waved a hand at his generally angry-looking demeanour. 

He let his shoulders slump a little, and took a deep breath in. The scent of fresh pie and chips filled his nose. “I honestly... I don’t know. He’s just so _sincere_ and he seemed like a genuinely nice guy beneath all the swagger and good looks. But that’s gone to shit,” Steve sounded defeated. “You got anything to go up against my issues? It honestly might help at this point.” 

It was Angie’s turn to frown. She bit her lip, pink lipstick highlighting the blue-y, green-y colour of her eyes. Steve wondered what was _that_ much of an issue. She was usually bright and happy, carefree so to say. This was more unusual. She almost looked conflicted.   
“Can you-“ she started quietly. Steve could hardly hear her over the sound of the kitchen. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Always.” 

She inhaled deeply, checking left and right for anyone listening, before leaning in to whisper in Steve’s (better) ear. “I’m a lesbian.” 

He almost wanted to laugh. It was so simple. Maybe not to her, but to everyone who knew what they were looking for and at. “Angie,” he raised an amused eyebrow. “I am so glad you finally realised.” 

She went a dark shade of red. “Is it really that obvious?” 

“Maybe not to the _heterosexual_ eye, but I’ve known for a while.”   
He disappeared with table 13’s order with a grin on his face. 

Angie stood trying not to look too shocked. _How the fuck had he known?_ Did he know about her and- probably not. Hopefully not. 

“Any other surprises?” He inquired with a hand on his hip. She decided to see if she could shock him. 

“I made out with Peggy Carter when we were half drunk and smoking cheap cigarettes in an alley.”   
That got him. Slightly. 

“Peggy Carter _smokes_?”   
Never mind. “Like, you and her is a bit of a surprise but Peggy could turn half the female population gay, or at the very least, bisexual, but since when has she _smoked?_ She didn’t while we were dating.” 

“It turns out she does if I’m involved. I just happened to have a packet on me and I decided it could be fun. And it was, a bit,” she added. He raised an eyebrow, clearly seeing right through her casual demeanour.   
“Fine, a lot. It was amazing.” 

Steve was having one of the wildest days of his entire life. 

 

He decided to call Nat when he got home. The old telephone sat in his hallway for no other reason than it was the only place to put it. The rest of his small, untidy apartment was, well, small and untidy. Every other surface had some form of drawing or drawing instrument. The windows at one end of the room lacked any form of curtain or blind, so during the summer the kitchen and living room were filled with natural light and absolutely no privacy. Then, of course, there was his bedroom with no natural light at all and the broken light that hung from the ceiling. It was homely enough however still disappointing. The entire place screamed ‘struggling art student’. 

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair, before picking up the receiver and dialling Natasha’s number. 

“You’ve reached Randy’s Rent Boys, my name is Twinkerbelle,” Clint answered when the ringing was abruptly cut off. “How can I be of _ass_ istance?” 

“Give me some of whatever your smoking,” Steve asked in a tired voice. “I need it.” 

“Oh hey Steve. How did today go?” He sounded unfazed. 

“Can I talk to Natasha?”   
There was a muffled exchange in the background and eventually her rich vocals answered. 

“Salutations, Steven. Tell me.” 

Steve groaned. “I’ve fucked everything up.” He gave her a brief run down of the afternoons events, and she sighed. There was a lot of frustrated sighing going around that evening. 

“One rule: don’t push it with him. He’s a pot about to boil over and you can’t force anything yet.” 

“Wish you’d told me that earlier.” He replied dryly. 

“And you mentioned how it felt like there wasn’t any _energy_?” 

“Yeah, it was sort of awkward.” Steve rubbed a hand across his face. “Natasha, I just-“

“I have an idea, love you, bye!” She drew out the ‘e’ before he heard a click. Silence. _Oh fuck._

 

“What’s your idea?” Clint asked from the sofa. “I hope it’s PG.” 

“Nope,” Natasha began dialling a number she never thought she’d need to. This could go one of two ways. 

“Hi Tony,” she asked in her sweetest tone possible. “I have three bottles of vodka I’m not drinking, when’s the next time you’re holding a party?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I told Nova I’d leave it fairly open ended so I did. Kick starting chapters. Yeet.


	6. the party at Tony's (aka the night everyone will regret without exception)

“Just in case we end up handcuffed to a table by the end of tonight, I would like to offer up my view on this matter; said view being that we should definitely not do this under any circumstances.”

“C’mon man, Tasha said we’ll be fine.”

“Double the reason not to go, then”

They stood on the corner of a dingy road, the streetlight barely illuminating the heavy air around them. Halfway down the street, a muffled bass of what sounded like ‘ _November Rain_ ,’ and the flashing multi-coloured lights drew every eye towards the large three-storey building that sat in the centre of town. Sometimes Steve wondered how Tony’s parents managed to keep such a large house in the middle of bustling New York, and maybe one day he’d ask. Today, however, he did not intend to plant one foot onto their polished oak floorboards.

Coming even this far had been a mistake. The night was black and unyielding, but there was a possibility that Bucky might spot him through the large windows if he’d even bothered to show up to the party. Steve would be more doubtful that he had come, except for the fact that Natasha was a force to be reckoned with, and could push you with ease into doing something you’d later regret; which was the exact fucking reason he was here, staring at a house packed with drunk teenagers, and arguing with a slightly taller dumb blond than himself about what to do next.

“We’re going’ in,” Clint declared, stepping boldly forward.

“Nope,” Steve replied and turned on his heels to begin walking in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, Clint had other plans, lunging towards him and grappling with Steve until he found himself pressed against Clint’s back, legs securely held by each arm. Steve would have liked to call this uncomfortable position of riding piggy-back style, hanging on to Clint’s shoulders a new experience, but unfortunately, this was hardly the first time it had happened, and Steve suspected it would not be the last.

Clint stopped short at the lit doorway, knocked twice on the wooden surface, then strolled inside as it swung inwards, ducking considerately to avoid knocking Steve out against the doorframe.

~~~

For once in his some-might-say mundane life, Sam Wilson had some quite serious doubts as to his previous actions, and to how they were now affecting his evening.

When one of the many high-strung students that he shared a flat with had run through the hallway that morning to announce a party at Stark’s, Sam had sat back with the satisfaction of one who planned to stay in that night. But then Riley had planned out a whole schedule to drop people off and pick them up again, hopefully before sunrise, and Sam had been appointed the designated driver for the second batch of lifts. Riley had seemed so full of energy, and after the countless late nights at the library, Sam decided it would be worth the trip.

Now, however, he was regretting his agreement to sobriety, surrounded by his drunken peers who were doing a decent job of imitating a scene from a particularly feral nature documentary. Sam was never one to become overly drunk during parties or noteworthy celebrations, but the dull buzz of alcohol did tend to lighten his blanket of worries for a while, allowing him to enjoy the night as if he were a fourteen-year-old kid hanging out in the worn-down park with his scrappy friends again. Right now, the music was loud and incessant, the lights were bright overhead, and watching the stupidity of his classmates and otherwise around him was beginning to wear away at his faith that humanity was, in fact, an intelligent species.

“Couldn’t help but notice you ain’t got a red plastic cup there, pal.” A tallish guy, with longish brown hair tied in small braids and a geometrical tattoo winding its way around his left forearm, stepped up to the bar, leaning across the polished surface. “Stuck with the short straw too, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam replied, leaning back against the plastic bar stool tucked in at the corner of the room.

“You gotta see the good though, don’t ya?” The guy twisted around, facing the spectacle of the rapidly escalating party. “Means you get the opportunity to watch these dumb fucks stumble around like a buncha delirious backup dancers, without waking up in a dumpster yourself. Which is fun.”

Sam cackled, grinning wide despite his stubborn clear-headedness. “My thoughts exactly, man,” he shouted, struggling to hear _himself_ over the music. “Though I wouldn’t mind a taste of something strong right about now.”

Long-haired dude nodded, as if pondering some age-old question of humanity, then reached to offer his hand to Sam. “James Barnes. New York Ballet.”

“Sam Wilson. Psychology.”

They shook briefly, then turned to observe the inevitable cock-up that is any party involving drunk teenagers ever. Bodies without coordination fell over each other to the loose rhythm of ‘ _Killer Queen_ ’ sounding through the house.

~~~

Natasha stood unwavering near the edge of a dense crowd of kids wearing dark jackets and holding glowing cigarettes to their lips. Spotting Clint and Steve careening through the doorway, she stepped forward and smirked as Clint practically dropped Steve onto the ground, then tripped over the tiny bag of rage as he tried to push himself up, causing Clint to sprawl across the floorboard. Bearly sixty seconds inside and the pair were already disgracing themselves. _This party was going to be amazing._

She had decided that in order for this night to go according to plan, both Bucky and Steve had to be in the optimal condition to make up due to their futile argument. Hence, Bucky was given the duty of designated driver, providing a caring and responsible character; one who will not throw up and make everything so much worse and, ultimately, not be a dick. Right now she had plans to give Steve as much alcohol as he could safely ingest, ensuring the malleable and flirtatious Steve that Natasha had come to know and love through years of admittedly terrible parties.

“Hiya, boys,” she yelled, leaning over close to their ears. Steve had finally made it into a standing position, but Clint still sat, staring dejectedly at the floor. Nat hauled him up by the armpits, setting him down next to an impressive array of drinks, and pouring out the most intense-looking one into a couple of shot glasses. Steve slumped down next to him, already reaching for the bright blue liquid with paint smudged fingers. That kid did always get into a ferocious surge of painting whenever his dumb head started obsessing over things that really should be left alone, or at least dealt with in a reasonable manner. Which was why they were here. “That’s the spirit,” Natasha encouraged, as Steve downed a large mouthful.

Clint leant back, eyes falling to meet her's upside down, mouth grinning wide above them. “When did you get here?”

“Only five minutes ago. Don’t worry, you’ve hardly missed any of the fun.”

Clint pulled a face, then sat up to jab a finger at Steve, who was now glancing around as if expecting an ambush. “Just ‘cause I had to lug this dumbass right up to the front door.”

“Hey, Nat.” Steve called over the blare of ‘ _Shoot to Thrill’_ ' thrumming through the speakers. “What was this idea of yours? If I had to guess, I’d say it has something to do with this whole situation.” He gestured vaguely at the noise, and the people, and the general cacophony of everything.

“Yes and no.” Steve raised an eyebrow and she relented. “Fine, yes. Now drink up.”

Steve drank up. For being such a lightweight, Steve can always down a drink at impressive speeds when he wants to, or when someone had dared him to. If Natasha was being honest, it was almost exclusively the latter, and it was almost exclusively Natasha doing the daring. Or Clint. They had a special friendship.

“ _Anyways_ ,” she dragged out, after she had deduced that Steve was appropriately tipsy. “On an unrelated note, I’m going somewhere else now, so sit tight and don’t try to escape.” With a pointed glance at Clint, she spun around and began to slip through the crowds, hearing Steve yell out a strangled _Natasha_ behind, before being fully submerged in the stench of cheap alcohol and sweat.

~~~

“Hey-- co-- _Peps_ , c’mon. It’s my damn house, I should be allowed control of the tunes.”

“Tony, we talked about this. Sharing? Consideration? _Love thy neighbour_ , et cetera.”

“What’s wrong with the classics, Pepper? Don’t tell me that you actually like this stuff.”

Tony wasn’t about to let some teens with misplaced music taste ruin his _own_ party which, granted, he probably wouldn't have bothered showing up for were it not for the fact that Pepper had called ahead to tell him she’d be coming. If he was going to take the time to extract himself from the mechanics lab for more than basic sustenance and hygiene, he was going to regulate it properly. And that included hunting down whoever was slipping those god-awful CDs into his speaker system and throwing them down the stairs. Which, need he remind anybody, this house had quite a few of.

A flash of bright red caught his eye, and Tony found himself swivelling to see the scary murder-faced New York City Ballerina stride across the floor with a couple of slightly less intimidating guys in tow. They skirted close against the nearby wall, the redhead's hand gripped firmly on the first guy’s forearm, dragging him confidently along.

“O _ho_.” Tony knew an incident when he saw one, and call it a curse or a blessing, he was always drawn to check it out. “ _Shenanigans_ are afoot.”

“Sorry?” Pepper glanced above the party-goers, before settling back on Tony. “What is it now? Don’t tell me you’re still going to try and root out those kids, are you?”

Tony waved her off, already searching for the scary girl through the jumble of swaying arms and stumbling legs. “Nah, nah. The past is the past, darling. There are more exciting matters at hand.”

~~~

Bucky didn’t even know how he had arrived at this moment. As the infamous saying goes, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. By which he meant past-Bucky was a goddamn _idiot_ who shouldn’t have been allowed to make important decisions for people like present-Bucky to clean up.

That mess had amounted to standing awkwardly in front of Steve Rogers, feeling like ants were crawling up his skin. Steve stared back, and the whole set up reminded him a little too much of that afternoon a few days back; the afternoon that had turned out the way it did precisely because of his shitty decision making. Natasha wasn’t helping the feeling of déjà vu by standing between them, glancing back and forth with an evil glint in her eyes.

Steve floundered, then seemed to notice Sam standing slightly behind Bucky. Smiling lopsidedly, he leant heavily on the bar.

“Heyy hey, Sam. How’s it goin’? I ain’t seen you. I ain’t… since that architecture course?”

Sam stepped forward slightly, chuckling. “Yeah man. That was one horrible class. How much longer did you last?”

“Quit ‘bouta a week after you,” Steve grinned. His cheeks were a little too pink, and his eyes a little too wet. It was that moment Bucky noticed the tall glass resting beside his elbow and raised his eyebrows towards Natasha, who shrugged nonchalantly.

“Uh. Heya Steve”

Suddenly the full weight of Steve’s eyes settled back onto him, and that splitting grin sagged for a moment, as if Steve’s brain was desperately trying to signal to his face that Bucky was not someone he should be talking to at all. His drunken instincts seemed to win out, however, and his mouth pulled up once more with twice the intensity. “H-hey Bucky. Buckaroo.”

Sam had stepped up to the bar to begin a conversation with Natasha, and the dark lighting seemed to wrap around the small space between him and the kid he’d barely known for a week. Steve’s dirty blond hair flopped down in front of his face, his eyes hidden in shadow, reflecting the rhythmic pulse of colour. Bucky stepped forward, then back again. Then forward, because he wasn't sure if Steve would be able to hear him over all the noise.

“Listen. I know-- I know I didn’t- that I should’ve.” _Shit_. He was better than this. Better than a stuttering mess who couldn't even string a sentence together, couldn't even look Steve in the eye. Bucky shoved his hands into his jacket, balling them into fists.

“Hey.” Steve looked concerned. Concerned for _him_ , of all people. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

Bucky laughed, bitter. “The hell I have. I snapped at you when-- when all you asked was a question. And you had a right to know the answer. And I-- freaked out okay? I couldn’t-- I just--” He pressed his lips together, terrified of what might come out unchecked.

Steve frowned, then set his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, leaning in close enough that he could smell the alcohol of Steve’s breath. “Nahh. I-- You’re great. You’re the greatest great, and I ain’t even gotta know you that long to know that.” Steve’s face broke into a pained expression, flitting between looking like he was about to cry or throw up.

He cautiously stepped closer, close enough that Steve had to crane his neck to look at him. Though he was very obviously drunk, Bucky could still see a hint of awareness that meant he probably wasn't completely gone yet. Bucky ran a hand through his knotted hair, pulling at the strands in agitation. “Listen, Steve. I gotta tell you something, even if you won’t remember it in the morning. I--”

An abrupt crash rang through the building, turning every head towards the front doors. The heavy oak panels stood, pushed violently against the wall. A figure stood there, tall and dark, like every cliche horror film ever. Bucky was about to turn back and ask if anyone else knew what was going on when the figure spoke.

“ _Where’s my brother?_ ”


	7. get your greens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Besides, I took you for a person who knew that things never became ‘magically mended’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s been so long since I’ve posted on this website. Why? I’ve been spending more time studying or working on my own original work than doing this. I regret not posting this chapter earlier. It’s been finished for ages.

Admittedly, he wasn’t all that surprised.   
The girl on his right with the black/purple hair was still sitting with one leg on his lap and a cigarette in her hand, and the cute boy on the back of the couch was still playing with his long hair, both completely oblivious to the large blond who had two moments ago made an unjustified scene.   
He definitely regretted the lack of alcohol in his system. 

His brother made eye contact with him across the room and a mix of relief and fury flashed across his face, trying to push through the mass of drunken young adults dancing on the polished floors. He repressed a laugh when a splash of beer was sloshed down the older boys front, and he looked at the intoxicated perpetrator with disgust. 

“Hello, Thor.” He said simply when his brother stood in front of him. The girl looked up and then went back to smoking. He knew what was coming and in that moment he wanted Thor to drop dead on the fancy wood floor. 

“Loki. You’ve been missing for hours-“

“Ah- stop. Not missing. _Out_ , like a normal twenty-something year old. Missing implies I told no one where I was going, or I was taken here by force. Neither of those are true, I just feel I’m under no obligation to continually tell you what I’m doing all the time.” He reasoned slyly. Thor sighed in exasperation. 

“You’re not supposed to be out like a _normal_ twenty-something year old.” He pushed. 

“You’re calling me abnormal?” He scanned Thor’s smart trousers and blazer, a completely unnatural piece amongst the other people in the room. 

“You’re not.” The response was simple. 

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Last time-“

“Nope-“

“Loki-“

“I’m not living under dear old Dad’s roof anymore, am I? Living the balletic dream while father goes insane because I chose to do what I wanted?” He raised an eyebrow and smirked as Thor squirmed.   
“ _Criminal lawyer_. I may be good at bending the truth but making a living from it by defending less than honourable people sounds like a less than honourable act.” 

“Who are you, Loki Odinson, to speak of honour?” His brothers jaw twitched. Loki almost slapped him. The urge was proving more and more difficult to keep under control. 

“Because having sex with another consenting male is now equated with people who are serial rapists and child abusers?” He shot back. He noticed the boy behind him had stopped dragging elegant long fingers through his hair. Loki reached back and weaved their hands together loosely by his head while Thor continued to speak. 

“Mother is worried. She came round earlier to make sure you were at home-“

“Tell her to stop worrying then. I’m perfectly fine.” Loki thanked the change in music from something less ADCD and something more quietly Queen. He had around 30 seconds of the beginning of Bohemian Rhapsody before it was too loud to hear his brother again. 

“I’m sorry, _perfectly fine?_ ”

“I’m sorry, can we maybe talk outside?” He tilted his head back to look at the _devastating_ cute boy with deep brown eyes and smiled. “I’ll be back in a minute, sweetheart.” 

And with that he made his way into the cold night air, shrugging on a worn leather jacket that did nothing to keep out the cold and everything to get girls and boys alike to pull it off his shoulders.   
They walked a little down the road from the building before Loki spoke again. 

“Look, _brother-“_

“Loki, you can’t keep doing this-“

“Live every day as if it’s my last.” The shrug was as nonchalant as the sentence. From inside a jacket pocket he retrieved a small bag of weed he’d bought from someone inside. He began rolling up a joint, and Thor watched with disapproval. Loki looked up and raised an eyebrow. “It’s supposed to help.” 

“We haven’t talked about how you’re doing-“

“Great. I’m doing fine. Did you not _see_ the people I was with?” 

“How about friends?”

“People in NYCB. Barnes, Romanov, the Maximoff twins. I actually have a life.” 

“Do they know?”

The stupidity of the question was enough to make him turn away for a moment. He inhaled a deep breath of smoke and buried his forehead in his hand. _Did they know?_  
It wasn’t like they needed to.   
“God, Thor, why would they?” He spat angrily. “In what conversation is that going to come up?” His voice raised to a shout, before remembering a) where he was, and b) the sensitivities of the topic. “Like we’re all gonna sit down and talk about our issues, like we’re all gonna open up and be dysfunctional little dancers together, Romanov and her Cold War stories, Barnes and whatever happened with him and his family, and me?” He could feel his blood boiling as the words spilled out from his lips in an angry stutter. “What- what would I say, just _’oh hey guys did I- did I mention I’m HIV positive?’_ Are you fucking insane?” 

Just as he finished his sentence he heard the door open and close, the first few chords of _Born In The USA_ blaring through the gap before returning to a dull throb in the background. He watched as two very drunk girls stumbled across the empty street while their frustratedly sober driver sighed at her friends raucous behaviour. 

“You wanna know something, Thor?” He went back to being annoyed. “You wanna know how I got the disease in the first place?”  
Thor, for once, was silent.   
“It wasn’t through drugs because I’d never touch a needle, it wasn’t through sex because I actually know about using ‘protection’ or whatever people want to call it, it was when I was in hospital. Remember that? When I got knifed in an alley by some crack heads with a homophobic agenda, when I had to get a blood transfusion?” 

He noticed the look on his brothers face change to something softer. “Loki,” he sighed. 

“And you know what? I’ve decided that I’m gonna live my life how I want and no one can stop me from doing that anymore. So please, just fuck off and leave me alone.” 

He didn’t care that Thor remained standing in the street when he pushed his way back into the throng of bodies, he didn’t care that the drugs in his system were only doing so much to stop it eventually crashing. He didn’t care. Instead, Loki found the same boy sitting in the same place and decided to get heavily drunk. 

~~

Bucky was still by the makeshift bar when Loki returned, looking like a disgruntled cat and smelling strongly of weed. Steve was still next to him, leaning on the edge of the bar and drinking the glasses of water Bucky insisted he had, completely unaware that Bucky had tried to tell him something. 

“That seemed...” he trailed off as Loki finished a shot of suspiciously bright purple liquid. 

“Horrible. Awful. I hate my fucking family.” He looked bitter. 

“Same.” It slipped out before he could stop it, but played it as nonchalantly as he could. Bucky ignored the curious look Steve gave him.   
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” he tried a deflection from his own situation. 

“Forget that you do.” He sounded murderous. Bucky wouldn’t put it past him that he wasn’t capable of actual murder.   
“Right,” he stood up straight, downing another shot before shaking his head. “I’m off to hook up with the cute boy on the sofa and hopefully forget everything that’s happened tonight.” 

“If I was a less tolerant person I would have called you a faggot, maybe beaten your ass,” Bucky said casually. He noticed Steve flinch. 

“From you Barnes, I’d call it the kettle calling the pot black.” Loki said. “And beating my ass sounds kinky.” 

“Fuck off, fag.”

“Up yours, Barnes.”  
He stalked back to the couch and pressed a kiss against the jaw of a guy with brown eyes and honey skin. 

When he turned around Steve was looking at the red cup of water in his hand with a strange expression across his face. 

“I’m gonna go.” He announced, more sober than he had been twenty minutes previously. His small frame began retreating towards the door, badges clinking. 

“Wait, Steve-“ Bucky tried, but _Should I Stay or Should I Go_ was playing far too loud for him to even hear. 

“Totally should not have just said that,” Natasha raised a mildly judgemental eyebrow as she lit a cigarette. “ _Faggot._ He doesn’t know you’re joking, and he has had it worse that most.” 

Bucky groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing even more that he hadn’t turned up at all. He was in a deeper hole than the one he’d started in, and that had been impressively deep to begin with. 

“Fuck you. Fuck this. Fuck everything,” Bucky tried to sound intimidating as he walked away, determined to find Steve. Natasha waved a mockingly flirtatious goodbye as he stalked off. She didn’t mind being on driving duty so much, especially if it meant a few passengers less. 

~~

Steve was furious. And still kind of drunk. He was furious and drunk and tired. His Docs scuffed the pavement as he made his way along the gridded streets towards the river. He was going to sit down, smoke some weed, and then go home. He was going to catch a bus home while sort of drunk and probably (hopefully) high and furious and tired and-

“ _Fuck_!” He shouted at the steadily flowing water that drifted past the riverbank. He picked up a stone and threw it, content at the large _ploink!_ noise it made as it hit the waters surface and began to sink. Of _course_ Bucky was going to be one of those people.   
And to _think_ Steve had suspected- it was pointless. It wasn’t just the new development either, oh no; tonight was going to be one of those nights. One of the nights he’d breakdown, everything he was ignoring would come crashing down around him like an old building far too long in disrepair, and he probably wasn’t helping himself by smoking pot but _who the fuck cared at this point?_ That’s what he would do; smoke some bloody weed and get over it. The artist way. The Village way. It was a good way not to deal with anything ever. 

He sat down on a red bench nearby, rolled up a joint and lit it, content at the sudden calm wave that flowed through him. The light from a nearby street lamp illuminated one half of the scene, shadow falling where Steve was curled up.   
He wasn’t going to think about Bucky, he wasn’t going to think about-

The demons were already waiting for him, out of sight. He closed his eyes and let them take control of his mind, watching as memories played under the surface of darkness. It felt like he was drowning in a sea of shouts and cold, harsh laughs and fists and violence. He could feel every hit to his face, every kick to his ribs, even the icy looks thrown by some of the teachers when he told them why he’d been beaten up. _Again._

“Hey,” a voice said. It took him a moment to realise who it was. 

“Fuck off. I’m too unstable to deal with you right now.” Steve didn’t open his eyes, but the undeniable shake in his voice was enough to give himself away. 

“You’ve gotta be alright if you know you’re unstable.” The attempt at humour fell flat. The breeze whistled through the night air, before Bucky spoke again. “Steve, please-“ 

“ _No,_ alright? Stop. I thought I escaped half of that life when I was seventeen and won a scholarship to the art college, when I could get away from the kids at school who’d say things like that and beat the shit out of me every other week, or the people who’d say those things from across the street when I walked past. That was the worst part; strangers. Couldn’t hide anymore then. All I could do was run, run, run, and even that hasn’t _fucking worked_.”

“Steve you’re- you’re drunk and you don’t know-“

“Don’t know what?” He shouted, smoke escaping from his lips. “Don’t know- know what, you _prick_!”  
The demons kept pulling him under, lucid memories forcing their ways through the glass walls he’d put up to keep them in until it was late at night and he was alone in the darkness. It would have been ok, had Bucky not shown up.   
“I know I’m drunk, and now I’m high, but that- that doesn’t mean I don’t know- I don’t know-“   
He inhaled sharply as his throat closed around the words. 

“Steve, please just listen. I didn’t say it to be insulting, or to make anyone’s life more- look, Steve, Loki and I have a very particular friendship and we just say that sort of thing because _both of us are Queer_.”   
It hit him like a speeding bullet. Steve didn’t speak for a few moments, processing the new light Bucky had shed on the situation. “It’s reclaiming the label or whatever- can I sit down?” His voice was small and calm, and Steve just wanted to listen to him speaking and drown out the noise of his thoughts. 

He nodded, eyes still glued shut, heels of his hands resting on his forehead.   
The bench groaned a little as another body joined the weight, and Bucky rested his elbows on his knees and leant forward to look at the river.   
“I shouldn’t have said it, I know. It was insensitive, I didn’t realise that you’d- that it’d-“

“It’s fine, I’m just-“ he sucked in a breath before the tears start rolling down his cheeks and his chest gave way to sobs. 

“Wow, hey,” Bucky murmured, placing a cautious arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve leant into the touch. 

“I’m so fucking tired. I’m drunk and I’m high and I’m tired and I’m fucking- ah shit th-“ his chest began to tighten as though it was a cage, trapping him and his thoughts alone. His body went cold. The tears on his face were colder.   
He was panicking. His mind was racing and his heart was pounding and his skin was cold and the voice in the back of his mind was screaming memories on repeat like a scratched record-  
“Buck, it’s in my head,” he whispered urgently. “They’re in- those people are in my head, they’re not going away-“ his hands flew up to his temples and he repressed a scream as his brain became overwhelmed with images and noise from nothing but old memories with sepia tones and red finishes. Blood pounded in his ears, an almost deafening roar that shut out the noise of the river and the sirens in the distance. 

“Steve! Steve look at me,” the voice was so far away he almost couldn’t hear it, just a distant call from a time present.   
Two firm hands were gripping his shoulders and at some point the joint had rolled onto the ground. 

“Steve, open your eyes.” The voice pushed. “Please, just open your eyes.”   
He can’t. He can’t. He couldn’t even move, his lungs were frozen and-

“Please!” Bucky begged. “Please just look at me!” 

Somehow, his eyes flew open and he was greeted with lights too bright and darkness too dark and a swimming image as tears spilt rapidly down his face. Bucky looked at him urgently, eyes panicked. 

Through a drunken haze he gripped the front of Bucky’s jacket as though it was a lifeline. “Please don’t let them. Please don’t- I can’t- Bucky they’re here, they-“

“Shh, it’s gonna be ok. He wrapped his arms around the blond as Steve shook, trying to offer some form of comfort.   
“You’re alright. I’ve got you. You’re ok.” 

 

Bucky’s mind wandered to nights of Rebecca waking up from night terrors as a younger child, of him holding her while she shook, desperate for a form of comfort that wasn’t offered by their parents. He found himself subconsciously running a hand up and down Steve’s back slowly, and realised the blond soon stopped shaking. 

“See? You’re ok. We’re ok.” He murmured after a few minutes of sitting like that. The night was bitingly cold now, clear sky above them a blanket of thousands of diamonds. 

“I’m sorry.” Steve mumbled. “This doesn’t happen a lot but it sucks you had to see it.” 

“No, no. It’s fine. Really.” Bucky loosened his arms from around Steve and sat up straighter. “I just didn’t like the idea of you being out like this by yourself.” 

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the fresh night air equal parts comforting and intimidating. Bucky let his mind wander slightly, back to a week before when he’d taken a rough chance and ran into an equally quiet night with Steve’s hand in his. He’s damn lucky Steve was, well, _Steve._ He could’ve been punched. He hadn’t even thought through what other people must have seen. 

“You got a ride home?” Bucky asked through the quiet. Steve shook his head before pausing. 

“I don’t even know anymore.” He sounded defeated, and looked even smaller than usual. 

“Come on,” Bucky stood up, offering Steve a hand up which he took. “I’ll take you.” 

“Buck, it’s fine.” Steve protested weakly. 

“Come on, you said it yourself. You’re drunk, you’re high, you just had a pretty intense panic attack, and you look like you’re about to fall asleep. I’m driving you home, punk.”   
Bucky walked at a slow pace, and Steve followed beside him, face pale aside from the red around his eyes and the flush of his cheekbones.   
He wondered if this had happened before.   
He wondered if Steve had been alone. 

 

Bucky just started the car when Steve turned to him with a serious expression on his face.   
“Buck.” 

“Mm?” Bucky hummed in response, turning the radio on. _All Night Long_ began playing quietly through the speakers. 

“You were gonna tell me something earlier.” 

Steve noticed a new tension in Bucky’s shoulders. The song was far too cheery for the atmosphere that had suddenly fallen across the car. The other boy sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face.   
“I don’t remember.” He muttered eventually, pressing a foot down gently on the accelerator. The buildings outside glided idly past and Steve looked at the passing streetlights instead of Bucky’s face. 

“You’re lying. I won’t push it beyond that.” 

Steve let the radio play gently as his mind wandered. He could feel a crash beginning and he wondered if he’d be able to get out of bed the next morning. Already, his heart was going numb and his head was hazy. 

“When I was fifteen,” Bucky began quietly. “A few of the guys from my class found out I did ballet. We were getting changed before gym once and they’d pretty much convinced every other boy in the room to beat the shit out of me or stay quiet about it. I remember-“ he stopped for a moment, biting his lip. “I remember being on the ground, and someone kicked me in the ribs so hard I couldn’t breathe and I just thought ‘it’s ok. This is it and I’m ok.’ When the school found out they’d been beating me up because they thought I was gay the first thing they asked was if it was true. If I was gay.” 

“And are you? Sorry.” He gave an apologetic smile. “That’s private.”

Bucky laughed a little. “It’s fine.” There was a pause. “Yes. No. Maybe. Didn’t tell them that,” he inhaled sharply. “I just told them I wasn’t queer. I think my parents were more thankful I wasn’t than that the people beating their son until he couldn’t move had been given three weeks of detention and a five day suspension.” 

“Not what you were gonna say earlier?”

He gave a self deprecating chuckle. “Hell no.”

Steve went quiet for a moment. “Is this the part where I tell you one of my traumas and we both cry and hug and then everything’s magically ok?” He asked sarcastically. 

“Not unless you want to.” Bucky left the situation open. “Besides, I took you for a person who knew things never became _magically better._ ” Steve smirked dryly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. A few moments passed. Somewhere, a man shouted, quickly followed by laughter.   
He decided to share what he’d never dared. 

“My first boyfriend killed himself around six months ago. We’d dated for a year or so back when we were juniors. Broke up soon enough after that, but we kept in contact a little.” He’d never told anyone about it, not even Natasha or Angie or Peggy.   
“I found out when he stopped turning up to ACT UP meetings. He’d always had a lot of stuff going on but...” Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair anxiously. “It’s weird. Everyone moves on from a high school break up, and breaking up with him was easy because by the end neither of us were particularly invested but then something like that happens and it’s like you’re heart gets broken again.” 

The quiet fell over them once more. Neither one cried, nor did anything magically mend as Bucky had said. Instead it hung in the air, open and raw like a fresh wound. The stars shone. The world spun. The clock on the dash changed each minute.   
The natural order of the universe continued, but Steve felt the missing piece like a pinprick of pain in his heart. Others felt it like a bullet. 

 

Bucky made sure Steve drank another couple of glasses of water and had something to eat before he left the paint covered apartment. Steve was asleep on the small bed in his bedroom, and Bucky stood in his hallway contemplating something small. He grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper, before writing a few digits down and a quick note. He left and as the cold night air hit his face he suddenly felt a rush of emotions overcome him. They’d shared some of the most haunting of their demons. He somehow knew more about Steve than he’d ever thought he would, and Steve knew more about him than most.   
The minute he was sitting in the drivers seat again, a sob broke through the silence and he found himself curled up against his knees as his mind processed everything that had happened in the past hour.   
Somehow, he knew it would be ok. 

~~ 

Steve got his answer to what Bucky might have been trying to tell him the night previous. Or at least, half of one.   
In the morning haze, he pulled himself out of bed to drink a glass of water and take a few paracetamol for the headache that was pushing through his temples. The sunlight streaming through the windows made his eyes ache and he wondered if it was possible they could fall out. As he made his was back towards the comforting darkness of his bedroom, he noticed something.   
Beside the phone in the hallway he noticed a new note attached to it. 

_Incase you want drive through Brooklyn at obnoxiously late hours of the night again.  
\- B_

Steve smiled weakly at the number attached to it. He climbed back into his bed and fell asleep for another four hours. 

~~

 

“So you’ve known the guy for what, less than twelve hours and already he’s witnessed you having a full-blown panic attack and you’ve both shared your deepest secrets?” 

Steve was sitting with Sam in an artsy little cafe that the psychology student had been raving about for weeks. (“I swear Steve, best coffee in New York. No joke.”)  
The soft just-autumn light filtered gently through the midday haze of businessmen in sharp suits with tired looking faces, and students in tired looking suits with sharp faces.   
Steve sighed and rubbed his face. It had been four days, and he still hadn’t called Bucky at all, more because he was scared of not being able to say anything. Maybe he could spill the wild details of the morning previous when Professor Erskine had spent twenty minutes of a lecture ranting about how disgusting the destruction of the Bauhaus art schools was. 

“Sam, I literally don’t know. You’re a psych student aren’t you? Give me the science.” 

Sam took a thoughtful sip of coffee. “Two people who met under unusual or stressful conditions, both whom I assume are introverts. Stressful being a sensory overload, probably more anxiety inducing for a quieter person, two people who hate small talk and love deep conversations.” He shrugged. “Steve, this is rookie stuff. A fifteen year old girl with basic knowledge of psychology could figure this out, easy.” 

“Are you saying because it’s a girl I’m supposed to feel degraded?”

“No actually,” Sam replied. “I’m saying it’s far more impressive considering there isn’t a push for the hypothetical female to go into a STEM career, so it’s more impressive she’s done this in her own time as light reading. _That_ is why it’s degrading, you privileged white male.” He finished with a raised eyebrow. 

“Me and my privilege. Nothing quite says privileged like me. Maybe you can explain breaking down into fits of tears every so often.”

“Overwhelmed by strange events, stressful situations, too many emotions or lack of. Steve, you’ll need to be more specific.” 

“That’s perfect. All I need. Thanks.” 

Sam hummed into his coffee. “But seriously. James Barnes. He’s become a big deal not only in your life apparently, but also in the balletic world.”

“How would you know, exactly?” 

“Steven. Natasha Romanov has an ear for gossip. Rumour has many things.” 

“Jeez, like what?” Steve looked at him with mild entertainment. Sam’s voice was hinting at something peculiar, neither good nor bad. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe it was something completely normal. 

Sam grinned. “Good or bad first?” 

“Good news is a lie. I’m not sure if I want to know the bad.” Steve shrugged. He didn’t know how _bad_ whatever it was could be but it sounded like it was either minor or extreme. Two ends of an extensive spectrum. “As long as he’s not a Nazi, pedo, Klansman, or rapist.” Sam shook his head. “Can’t be that bad then.” 

The other man raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Drug dealer, murderer, meth addict? Not that he is, or that I know of.” He added. 

“Murder can sometimes be morally justified, meth addicts need help not demonisation, and dealers? How else would I get my greens. But seriously,” Steve leaned back in his chair. “Can’t be that bad, right?”

“It might not be. Natasha is a mysterious little shit. She’ll tell you at some point. Not that I know the full picture.” 

“Stop riddling me, asshole, and let me finish my fucking coffee.” Steve muttered, taking a sip. There was a new itch introduced in the back of his mind. It was going to piss him off. 

Fuck his friends being cryptic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOW I’M OFF TO WORK ON THE NEXT CHAPTER OF THE WHIRLING WAYS OF STARS THAT PASS Y’ALL SHOULD GO READ THAT


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